2095/Debriefing is Always Fun.

Debriefing is Always Fun.
Date of Scene:	13 June 2020
Location:	Main Foyer: Triskelion
Synopsis:	Sam and Steve emerge from the workful atmosphere of the Triskelion for some gyros and friendly chitchat.
Cast of Characters:	Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers

---

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam Wilson isn't exactly a fixture around the Triskelion; apart from a few specific issues where his experience with flight harnesses was relevant, his expertise has rarely been needed by the intelligence agency. Unfortunately, today they needed information on some paramilitary types he just happened to have played medic for, and as a veteran, he was the most likely to be able to give specifics on their equipment.

As he makes his way out of the conference room where he's just been debriefed, he can't help but look a little bit like a shellshocked kid leaving the principal's office. He pauses as yet another three-piece suit with an earpiece walks by, adjusts the collar of his slate gray henley, and then shakes his head slightly. SHIELD debriefings weren't any more relaxed than the ones in the Air Force, but at least then he had a uniform to make him feel like everyone involved was on the same team.

Taking a quick breath to clear these musings from his mind, he sets off in a direction that he's pretty sure will at least get him closer to the exit.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Inevitably, the information from this debriefing will cross the desk of Captain Rogers if he isn't filled in verbally or a manila folder isn't slid across the glossy surface of a different meeting table. For the moment, however, the blond is walking in the opposite direction of Sam's travels down the hallway, an entirely different manila folder spread across his hands.

He glances up from it habitually, the better to not accidentally shoulder into anyone if not outright collide with them, and spots the pilot. In a dark dress-shirt and khaki slacks, Steve never sheds his militant history; the combat boots clash just a little.

"Sam." His voice lifts in greeting as he closes the pale-yellow folder in-hand and then tucks it beneath an arm. A handshake is offered per public social nicities. "How'd it go?" The question means Steve must have known at least to some degree the reasoning for the pilot's presence. His true-blues look over Sam's face even as he wears the small, knowing smile. Oh, debriefings.

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Oh, hey Steve!" Sam's face lights up as he enthusiastically returns the handshake. It's more of a relief than he'd expect to see a familiar, friendly face around these forbidding premises. "Long time, no see." In response to the question, he shrugs one shoulder, rolls his eyes, and says, "Ehh, debriefs -- you know how it is. I guess it's good I worked in recon, because there is not a single detail those guys don't expect you to know by heart." He reaches in the hip pocket of his jeans and produces a small, yellow memo pad. "I actually took notes. I just knew there'd be a quiz later."

He gestures with his pad to the paperwork Steve is carrying under one arm. "They keeping you busy around here?" He pauses, then amends, "Like, in a way you can answer without me having to get my memory erased?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Nothing wrong with notes," Steve agrees as the yellow pad appears from a pocket. He glances back to Sam's face and then down at his own collection of paperwork sandwiched away against his ribs.

"Mean, 's'not like 'd have to kill you if I told you." How forbodingly deadpan the Captain says this, with no more enthusiasm than a cashier informing of a total and his eyes gone theatrically cold upon the pilot.

Of course, he can't help the faint smirk, proof of him attempting to rib. "Nothing critical," comes the revelation with a riffle of fingertips along the spine of the folder. "Mostly dead-ends in a recent case, but they merit another look-over. Got some experience in cold cases." How drolly he says this. A lift of his free hand is for Sam to continue on, presumably accompanied by the Captain. "Rather have my time away from the desk, so if you're headed somewhere, might as well tag along."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"I see what you did there," Sam answers Steve's 'cold case' dryly. "Did you bring those dad jokes with you from the 40s, or have you had actual kids since I've seen you?" He's teasing, of course, but it has been a minute. He continues in the direction he was going, beckoning Steve to fall in alongside him. "I was thinking of grabbing lunch. Maybe a food cart? You probably know the neighborhood better than I do."

He obviously didn't take the 'I'd have to kill you' too seriously, but he does offer, "If any of those dead ends turn into leads, and you need help running them down, you know you can call me." He holds up a hand and waggles it. "I know I've been focused on the civilian side lately, but that doesn't mean I don't want to help out where I can."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"There's a good food cart not too far beyond the bridge, actually. Makes a mean gyro. Hard to resist dropping by it when 'm idling at the stoplight," the Captain shares. His motorcycle is tucked away in the staff parking garage as it stands, but it seems the idea of walking appeals deeply to him. "Lemme get this filed away in the office 'nd we'll see if they're doing any weekend deals."

It means taking the next right rather than the left, where the brighter and airier expansion of the hallway proves to open into the main foyer of the Triskelion. As the pair continue deeper into the building, they pass agents both in crisp suits and in office-wear, and all offer smiles or nods of greeting. Steve returns them as they happen, though he glances over at Sam again. "You're on my short-list for a call. Suspect something's gonna crop up 'nd it'll be ugly if so. No kids though," he continues. "No kids 'nd I tell these Dad Jokes all of the time."

He puts on an innocent expression and shrugs. "Must make me a //faux pa//."

Somewhere, even Barnes is groaning.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam gives Steve a truly stricken look, then his head lolls forward into his waiting hand. "You're actually killing me, Steve." He looks up and gestures to one of the junior SHIELD agents as she passes and nods a greeting. "Do these people get hazard pay? Someone should take that to Hill before she has to start handing out purple hearts."

He fiddles with his visitor badge as he waits for his friend to drop off the paperwork -- certainly not the sort of thing that should be taken out of the building, cold case or no -- and when he's rejoined, resumes their conversation with, "Honestly, jokes or not, it feels like I'm the one who went and had kids. It's weird to go from where I was before to working in a high school. I actually know teenagers, now, Steve. God help me, I'm in my thirties and there are teenagers I see /every day/."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Better you know how the Dad Jokes're weaponized 'nd part of my daily fight against the monotony of working here." As if there's any real //monotony// working at the Triskelion and for SHIELD; Steve's continued little smirk communicates the acknowledgement easily enough. Paperwork is filed away and he grabs his motorcycle jacket slung along the back of his desk-chair on the off-chance of needing it.

They get to walking again, back towards the main foyer and its broad glass walls letting in sunlight. "'s'not a bad thing, to know 'em. You'd do a better job counseling teenagers than I'd do any day. Imagine 's'hard not to get attached to 'em. They're at a point in their lives where everything's about to get bigger 'nd more complicated."

Emerging into the airy foyer seems to make one forget about the regulated confines of the interior building, though the Triskelion never sheds its intel-based infrastructure entirely. The marble flooring reflects security above if one knows where to look. "Easy enough to treat 'em as new recruits, want to give 'em some wisdom 'nd parameters," he continues, glancing over at Sam as they approach the front doors.

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Yeah, I just bet you'd get real bored otherwise," Sam answers, clearly not meaning a word of it. Captain America doesn't get the luxury of bored under the best of circumstances, and certainly not in the world they live in now. He doesn't appear to have brought a jacket, trusting June to do its thing, or at least trusting that some literal stool pigeon will alert him if the weather starts acting up.

As much as he finds the general officiousness of SHIELD imposing, Sam has to admit that the architecture of the Triskelion's cavernous foyer is impressive. He could probably do an aerial lap or two in this space, if he wanted to.

Returning to the conversation, he answers, "I mean, they're good kids -- most of them. And the ones that aren't just remind me of me." He frowns slightly, then continues, "And recruits is right -- I think that might be what's weird about it. I spent years working with guys coming back from the sandbox; now it's like I'm counseling the kids they were before they left." He brushes one hand across his jawline, then shrugs. "It's a weird perspective to have."

"So -- which way to these gyros you promised?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
Stepping outside of the controlled environment of the interior building means breathing in air brisk with the scent of sun-warmed grass and the moisture of the river surrounding the island. Not much of the city-smog makes its way to the nose, though there is the ever-present undernote of vehicles as it stands. Steve lifts his face into the sunlight for a moment, eyes closed, and sighs.

"Gyros are across the bridge 'nd down a block to the left. You mind walking? Figured it'd be good for the legs." Concrete paths flow through the manicured lawn until they break for sturdy asphalt and the unyielding construction of the bridge itself connecting island to mainland. "'nd it's a singular perspective," he agrees, glancing over at Sam again as he walks at an easy pace. "Might feel like you're intervening before any trouble happens." This he wonders at. "Wish that happened more often myself. Hard not to feel like a janitor sometimes when things get outta hand."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Yeah, the whole ounce of prevention, pound of cure thing," Sam agrees, his tone thoughtful as they step outside. "And I hope I'm helping, but with some of these kids, especially the ones with powers? It's like, you /know/ a couple months from now they're just going to be another kind of soldier in another kind of war. Here I thought the point of fighting over there was that other people wouldn't HAVE to fight here."

He gives a wistful sigh, letting the afternoon sun warm him, and looks over the bridge. "Walking is good. Healthy." He holds up both fingers by his ears. "And I make one /hell/ of a backup school nurse."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Steve can't help but laugh. "I can imagine you've stood in a few times after any scuffles happened. Hope they're paying you extra for it, or at least getting you another donut in the staff room." Concrete blends to the narrow walkways on either side of the bridge they cross. Below, the river flows slow and deep, dark where the light can't penetrate into its depths.

"Always something to fight for, I guess. The school should be glad you're there to run interference with 'em, before the world decides to influence 'em more. You still counseling over at the VA Center?" he asks, glancing over at the pilot again.

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Sure am. That's more of a volunteer thing, though," Sam affirms, glancing down at the river and wishing the walkway were a little less immaculately maintained, so that there might be a stone for him to skip. "Groups a couple of nights a week, and then I keep in touch with some of the people I've worked with in the past, in case they need anything."

He throws the other man a wry look and asks, "C'mon, now, when have you /ever/ known me to have the good sense to ask for extra pay for extra work?" He gives a low, self-deprecating chuckle, then admits, "They give me a little extra for trips or stuff outside work hours. If I had any brains, I'd be doing more consulting work for these guys." He twists and points back over his shoulder to the Triskelion. "Bet they never neglect to cut the check."

And yeah, I've patched some kids up. Mostly I try to look intimidating /before/ the fight happens, although mostly none of them take that seriously." He pauses, glances sidelong at Steve, and then confesses, "I'd be lying if I said I'd never arranged for some bird crap at just the wrong moment. Teens take their dignity a lot more seriously than you'd think."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Good. 'm glad to hear the veterans can still contact you -- and as far as cutting the check? Yeah, SHIELD does. They also provide extra donuts in the breakrooms," Steve informs the pilot in his droll manner, unable to keep smiling at the self-deprication on display. The manner in which a few fights have been curtailed, however, is enough to make the Captain blurt laughter again overtop the rumble of a car passing by on its way to the gates of the Triskelion.

"That's just dastardly. Think anybody'd think twice about starting any scuffle if a pigeon suddenly decided to paint 'em white on the shoulder, much less the face." Finally, they reach beyond the offical perimeter of the Triskelion and it's on to the streets proper, taking that left mentioned earlier. Steve nods towards the distant food cart parked on a side street, its front end visible from around the corner building. "Gyros're there. Took Janet here once, she didn't think it was half-bad."

Sam Wilson has posed:
"Hey man, when the situation gets rough, sometimes you gotta use any advantage you've got!" Sam answers, laughing and giving a shrug with his palms up and out. "What's important is: it works. They can't get mad, it was just a bird! So they just get embarrassed and rush to the bathroom to wash their hair."

He waits for a break in traffic so that he can cross the street, and elaborates: "I know it wouldn't actually work on, like, a HYDRA captain or anything -- but you know you want to let me try."

The awaited gap arrives, and he makes his way across, having timed it well enough that he doesn't have to rush. "Good pay AND empty carbs? Man, why don't I take more of your career advice?" Before too long, they're in line at the food cart, and Sam gestures for a gyro-and-fries combo.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Sam, you have my explicit permission to have any bird take a crap on any HYDRA agent at any time." Steve laughs nonetheless as he keeps pace with the pilot across the street and then arrives at the gyro truck. The matronly woman at the window seems to recognize the Captain, at least, and greets him before happily taking Sam's order. An identical order follows, with the addendum of a bottle of water, and soon enough, the team behind the truck's interior counter is at work.

"'s'true though, I give impeccable career advice. Done a lot of pep talks over the years. Just don't ask me about things like safety. SHIELD HR's about done with me 'nd not using parachutes, apparently," he informs the pilot with a smile just a touch self-castigating.

Sam Wilson has posed:
Sam snorts. "Yeah, maybe that's what they can contract me for. Steve-catching duties. The shield is great, but it doesn't -- y'know -- /bounce/, exactly." He says this as though he's revealing some great military secret that Steve hasn't been looped in on. Which would actually explain a few of the Captain's less orthodox tactical choices over the years.

"I appreciate your permission even if I wasn't necessarily going to wait for it," the airman continues with a grin. "I mean, just imagine the look on Baron vatsizBurger's face when he looks down at what used to be a spotless black uniform." He holds his fingers to his lips, then sprays them outward in the classic chef's kiss.

Before too long, he's gotten his order and is chowing down with a look of satisfaction. "Mmmf. That's the way you do it."

Steve Rogers has posed:
The Captain laughs and shakes his head along with his hand. Steve-catching duties, oy. "The shield bounces...a little," he admits, with the deliberate pause of someone funning at a fact sometimes painful depending on the speed of impact. "Though 's'true, you didn't need my permission at all. 'm looking forward to see aerial bombardment in action when the need comes of it."

Food arrives and indeed, the feta cheese-sprinkled fries are a thing of wonder in combination with the freshly-made lamb gyros. "Innit?" agrees Steve around a french fry. "Here, c'mon, there's a little park down the way, we'll sit 'nd you can tell me what the pigeons are thinking." Stashing his water bottle in his coat pocket, Steve then leads the way down the block, content with good food and good company.